


my fbi agent and i

by intertwingular



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: FBI Agent Victor, Gen, M/M, References to Depression, Slurs, Viktor Nikiforov is a Mess, art included, falling in love via stupid viral videos, its fluff, more tags tba, so much fluff okay, these are mostly warnings. sorry, this is...an fbi agent au???
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-07
Updated: 2018-07-07
Packaged: 2019-06-06 23:17:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,242
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15205640
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/intertwingular/pseuds/intertwingular
Summary: When threats on figure skating world champion Yuuri Katsuki's life are revealed, there's only one FBI agent for the job.Too bad Viktor Nikiforov - special agent or not - is an impulsive, lovestruck fool.(AKA the fbi agent meme au nobody ever really expected)





	my fbi agent and i

**Author's Note:**

> HERES MY PINCH HIT
> 
> okay, dear lord, let me TELL YOU, this entire fic was one huge panic-fuelled dash towards the finish line. even now, there are elements i'm wrapping up, but yes, for the most part, this fic is finished. i'll try to post weekly, but as i'll be overseas in korea for a bit, i may have to archive and plan for posts in advance. cross your fingers that ao3 will let me. 
> 
> anyways, a MASSIVE thank you to paluumin for being my partner in this. she was so patient with me, and her art is amazing. i'll link it when i'm not rushing to get this posted in time. 
> 
> for now, enjoy!

**PREFACE. WASHINGTON, DC, FBI HEADQUARTERS, UNDISCLOSED DATE.**

 

The threat is a passing thing, at first. Just a blip on the radar at the offices, a notification that an operative missed while out to lunch or something else completely and utterly mundane. It’s nothing too important, really. International sports fans are tricky things, especially on the internet, making death threats every five minutes when something - or _someone_ \- ticks them off. Most operatives don’t pay it much attention, just brushing off the chatter as smack talk. 

Seung-gil Lee is the first one to notice the threat for what it is - an international incident in the making. He finds it in the file archives, combing through them while searching for a file pertinent to the serial rape case he’s been assigned to. 

Yuuri’s name is familiar. Seung-gil went to college with him, initially just a semester abroad from Seoul National, but they’d kept in touch. It was an odd sort of friendship at first. Seung-gil had grown up listening to his grandparents talk around the horrors of the Japanese occupation, had seen the scars it had left on his grandfather. The Japanese in general were a taboo topic at home, some invisible boogeyman that loomed over their house and home from time to time. 

Hana noona had always boxed his ears when he tried to ask about it. 

“Sometimes, Seung-ah, you need to have a little tact.” She’d taken him out into the backyard, hands shoved into the pockets of her coat in an attempt to ward off the chill. “These things are...hard, to talk about. But not all of the Japanese are bad.” Seung-gil still remembers how she’d smiled at him, cheeks flushed pink from the cold. “So, still try and make friends, okay?” 

Warnings aside, Seung-gil _knows_ that his friendship with Yuuri had been strained at first. He’d grown up wary of the Japanese, and Yuuri Katsuki was...undeniably Japanese. A country boy, from a run-down tourist town in Kyushu, with parents who ran a hot spring resort. It was very Japanese. But friendship aside, strained text messages and quiet meet ups at local cafes notwithstanding, Seung-gil stops when Yuuri’s name pops up on his screen. It’s a small file, without much information in it, just the general profile the FBI keeps on high profile internationals. Name, birthday, weight and height. Current residence, occupation - reading through any one of these files is a headache on a good day, but Seung-gil powers through, reading through to the most recent hits file neatly away into Yuuri’s profile. 

_Need to clean the slate,_ a bolded line reads. _Can’t let a dirty Jap stay on the podium for too long - its time for us to win gold._ It’s a bigoted, _racist_ mess of messy assassination plans and recruitment spiels. Seung-gil attempts to track the initial information back to whatever IP address the posts were made from, but it’s a dead end. Unusual, but sometimes it does happen. The trail goes cold halfway through Newfoundland - and Seung-gil leans back in his desk chair, staring up at the ceiling. This has the potential to blow up into something catastrophic - an international incident in the making. 

Rifling in his desk drawers for a blank USB, Seung-gil goes through the files one last time, typing up a request form for a protection detail. He may not be able to help Yuuri directly, compromised as he is, but Seung-gil can try and guarantee his friend’s safety until the would-be-assassins are found. 

He gets up - cracks his back as he stretches, a languid, cat-like motion, and moves towards the Director’s office. 

“Director Feltsman?” 

“Come in.” Director Feltsman’s voice is rough, hoarse and raspy like he’s just come off another smoke break, and when Seung-gil slides into the office, he can’t help but think that it smells like the Director just got off of a smoke break too. 

Seung-gil sets the hand-warm USB on the Director’s desk in lieu of a greeting. “New case files.” 

Director Feltsman turns the USB over in weathered hands for a moment, contemplation clear in his face. “On the O’Reilly serial rape cases?” He finally asks - and Seung-gil notes the brief note of weariness in his voice. They’re all tired from the O’Reilly case; the crime scene photos are the subject of many of Seung-gil’s nightmares these days. 

“No,” Seung-gil says. “A new case. I’ve uncovered an assassination hit on Katsuki Yuuri.” 

“The Japanese skater?” 

_Do you mean the current world champion?_ Seung-gil wants to say. “Yes,” is what he says instead. Director Feltsman, while a brilliant handler and director, is nothing if not short tempered and volatile, and Seung-gil isn’t equipped to deal with loud, angry European men. Sometimes, he wonders how the older man worked on the field, and how he deals with Special Agent Nikiforov without blowing up every two seconds. 

(the secret: he doesn’t. seung-gil hasn’t been in director feltsman’s team long enough to realize that there are _weekly screaming matches_ \- though more one-sided than anything - between feltsman and nikiforov. it’s become a sport, actually - special agent babicheva runs the betting pool and everything.)

Director Feltsman looks over the gathered files with a critical eye. “Shit,” he curses, trying to run a hand through long-gone hair, “this has the potential to blow up into an international incident.” The Director pinches the bridge of his nose, and curses Analytics under his breath. “- the hell are we paying them for if they manage to miss something like _this?_ ” He clears his throat, looking up to meet Seung-gil’s eyes. “Thank you for bringing this to my attention, Agent Lee. We’ll get someone on this case.” 

And he turns away, dialing numbers rapid fire into the landline - a clear dismissal, on the Director’s part. 

Seung-gil turns on his heel, and all but frog-marches out of the Director’s office, stress locking his knees ramrod straight, and slicking his palms with cold sweat. His chest feels tight, worry shortening his breaths. 

_Whoever they assign to Yuuri,_ he thinks, _they’d better be good._

God, there’s nothing Seung-gil hates more than feeling compromised.

* * *

A knock at the door takes Viktor’s attention away from his laptop. It’s four am, California time, and Makkachin rolls over in Viktor’s lap at the sound. They’re both a little bored, Viktor thinks. After all, binging all five seasons of Brooklyn Nine-Nine in order to avoid finally rifling through the paperwork for since-closed cases does get boring after a while. 

“What do you think, Makka? Should I answer the door?” He ruffles Makka’s ears, running fingers through the curls in her fur. Makka’s tongue lolls out in response, as she lazily licks at his knee. “I see,” Viktor says. 

The knocking continues - closer to pounding now, and the angry kind to boot. 

“Ah, it’s Yakov.” Viktor continues to pet Makkachin, but the poodle bumps her head against his knee lightly. “Makka, have some mercy on me,” he complains, “Yakov will tear me apart at this hour of the morning!” 

Makka snorts in response, uncurling from her position half on Viktor’s knee and the couch. She trots off, across the carpet, and paws at the door. Merciless. 

“Vitya, you fool, I can hear you through the door!” 

“Whoops.” Viktor closes his laptop. “Well, that’s not good.” Cupping his hands around his mouth, he calls, “sorry! Viktor’s asleep right now, leave a message!” He’s sure, on the other side of the door, Yakov’s face is turning a lovely shade of puce. 

_“Vitya, if you don’t open this goddamn door, I swear, my foot will do it for you, you idiotic boy!”_

With a loud, intentionally audible sigh, Viktor hauls himself off from the couch, shuffling across the carpet in his socks. “Yakov!” He says, swinging the door abruptly open. “What a pleasant surprise!” 

“Don’t lie to me, boy,” is all Yakov says before stepping into his apartment. “And I see you’ve gotten no work done.” 

Yakov’s bluster is missing; Viktor knows this as a trademark sign that something serious is brewing back at HQ. A part of him perks up, excited at the prospect of something other than the never-ending stream of cold cases and mind-numbing paperwork - but mostly, Viktor is tired. He wants to stay at home with Makkachin, and not have to leave for missions that drag on from weeks to months. Viktor wouldn’t trade the work he does for the FBI for anything in the world - it brings purpose to his life that he can’t find elsewhere - but sometimes, he just wishes it would...stop. 

In other words, Viktor needs a break. He’s also certain he’s not getting it anytime soon, especially since Yakov is at his apartment at four am for reasons other than his ongoing divorce. 

“Mm, no,” Viktor says, evasive. “But nevermind that! What’s going on?” He smiles, wide and fake, all teeth sparkling and on display. Outside, cars rush by, San Francisco still awake at this unholy hour. Trotting over, Makkachin barks softly, pushing her head into Yakov’s hand, searching for pats. 

“You have a new assignment,” Yakov says, with all the grace and delicacy of a wrecking ball. “Seung-Gil Lee has sent you the information, and you will come to my office tomorrow for travel details and a paper file.” 

Viktor raises an eyebrow. “And what _is_ this new assignment?” He probably should have turned the lights back on when Yakov came in - through the half-closed curtains, the light from the traffic light bleeds through, bright, bloody red across his floors and walls. 

“Protection and observation. There have been threats against a figure skater. Seung-Gil believes they’re aiming to take him out before the Grand Prix Finals this winter.” Yakov steps away from Makkachin, pulling his comically large phone out from his coat pocket. “Here,” Yakov says, and hands the phone to Viktor. 

“A _figure skater?_ ” Viktor can’t help but ask. “Yakov, surely the police could handle this - hell, a security company could handle this.” 

Yakov scowls, teeth gnashing. “Use that damn head of yours for once, Vitya, you stupid boy.” He jabs a meaty finger at the screen. “Katsuki Yuuri. _Japan’s Ace._ If this boy is killed on US soil, we are looking at an international incident. Besides,” and his face softens, “if it turns out to be nothing, you get a bit of a vacation out of it. Supposedly, Michigan is beautiful this time of year.” 

Viktor looks at the Wikipedia page. Yuuri Katsuki - _Katsuki Yuuri_ \- is a sight. His hair is slicked back in the title photo, face solemn and focused - not wholly unattractive, really. “I...see,” is all he says. “Well, I’ll be there in the morning.” He hands Yakov his phone back, beginning to shoo the Director out of his apartment. 

“ _On time,_ Vitya.” 

“Of course!” Viktor protests, Yakov already out the door, “when have I ever been late?” He closes the door on Yakov’s unimpressed face, and watches from the window until the tail lights of Yakov’s car blend into the San Fran traffic. 

“ _Yuuri,_ ” Viktor mutters, opening his laptop. Makkachin hops back onto the couch with him, burying herself underneath a mound of throw pillows. “Like Yurotchka?” He types _katsuki yuuri figure skating_ into YouTube. The first result is a video with over 10 million views, titled “gpf banquet ft. drunken love by beyonce.” 

Seems promising. 

He clicks on the link. It’s a so-so quality video, camera work a little shaky, the person behind the phone clearly more than a few drinks in. 

_“Cherie, cherie, that’s a fucking stripper pole, hold the fucking camera, Antoine, I’m going in.”_

The camera rattles, shaking even more as it changes hands and a well-dressed blond man slips out from behind in, sliding into the crowd with practiced ease. His tailored jacket - if Viktor were a betting man, he’d put his money on Gucci - flies over to the cameraman, and the phone camera zooms in on the man clambering onto a stripper pole with practiced grace. 

Another man is already on the pole, and as the camera gets closer and closer, quality growing clearer, Viktor realises that he _recognizes_ that face. A quick click over to the open Wikipedia page confirms it - that man on the stripper pole is _Katsuki Yuuri._ Current figure skating world champion, for the fifth year in a row. The Living Legend™ and Japan’s lauded ace. 

Also, coincidentally, Viktor’s charge. 

He watches Yuuri and the blond man trace gyrating circles around each other on the pole, and Viktor swears that ass could corrupt even a saint. It’s definitely not what Viktor would expect from the after party of figure skating’s biggest event, Olympics aside, but then again, more than enough sex happens in the Olympic Village. 

God, that ass. Seriously, with a view like that, this assignment might not be so bad after all. 

“Come on Makka, we should start packing! Do you know what happened to my LouLous? I wonder if it’s sunny in Detroit this time of year...” 

(“yuuri! yuuri, what are your plans for the next season?” it’s a joke, a boy with a black, banged haircut having stolen the camera from antoine. he holds an empty beer bottle to yuuri’s flushed face. 

“i,” he hiccups, teetering in place, “dunno! i’m gonna - i’m gonna do something new!” yuuri throws his hands in the air, laughing. “phichit,” he leans closer, stage-whispering as if trying to share some massive secret, “it’s so quiet.” 

someone nudges phichit, the black-haired boy, and the video goes dark.)

**Author's Note:**

> okay theres the prologue! not actually the first chapter. uhhhhh links will be added when im not SCRAMBLING but here's a quick note: 
> 
> loulous are these stupidly expensive heart shaped sunglasses that i saw and knew automatically viktor HAD to have, fbi agent or not and uhhh yeah that's all
> 
> my writing tumblr is moonlitskin, and PLEASE comment and leave kudos! i'd really appreciate it.


End file.
